


Drabbles!

by NeonCharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonCharlie/pseuds/NeonCharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little AU drabbles from fluff to angst and Johnlock in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabbles!

**Author's Note:**

> There was a challenge I read a little while back on a different site. It said to put music on shuffle, use it for inspiration, and to write a drabble in the duration of the song. This is the product.

1) Falling Through the Roof, Horse Feathers

The first time they made love, it was fast and it was angry.

John's possessiveness and need had pounded into Sherlock. It started with pearly teeth against equally pale flesh, bruising fingers pressing against soft hip, and a screeching climax that left them both trembling and boneless.

It ended with three words:

"You left me." 

And that was all. 

 

2) Said I Would, One Two

Sherlock, for all his highly-functioning sociopathic self was worth, couldn't figure out what'd come over him. Perhaps it was when he frequently found himself at the receiving end of John's unexpected smile when it should've been a slap. Or maybe it was his eyes, always so kind and... caring. 

Whatever it was, it couldn't have prepared him for the words that came tumbling so awkwardly out of his mouth.

"John, marry me."

 

3) Swansea, Joanna Newsom

When Mycroft first saw Sherlock, he experienced the oddest twinge deep within his gut. His mother had just come home from the hospital, a bundle of of blankets with a smallish human being buried within its folds. This Holmes was nothing more than a lump of white flesh and a tiny pink mouth that seemed to be slack with boredom. And then he felt it. He assumed it was last night's cake. 

This twinge had grown even stronger the day Father had torn their family apart with nothing more than a four sentence note informing his family of his disinterest, leaving behind a tear-streaked and abandoned nine year old Sherlock in the arms of a fiercely protective Mycroft. 

And there was the time when he walked into that hospital a some odd eleven years later, his baby brother a tangle of scarred limbs and arms. He didn't need his doctors to tell him about Sherlock's overdose. 

It had carried on within Mycroft well after his baby brother could hardly be called a baby at all, and even though it still made him uncomfortable, he had become accustomed to it. And when he took one look at Sherlock's newly chosen and ever so loyal flatmate, he knew that John Watson was the only man who had the potential of sharing in this strange twinge. He was pleased. 

One day, he recounted all of this to Anthea after she had inquired about his interest in the placement of John in Sherlock's life, to which she replied that this twinge wasn't indigestion at all. 

It was love.

 

4) Last Favor, The Finches

John looked one last time at the dark fringe of hair, iridescent eyes, and angular face that was the enigma of Sherlock Holmes. Just one last time. 

The clergyman coughed, and John drew away from the man that was the personification of everything dangerous and crazy and irrational and insane and strange and beautiful and turned back to a future of safety and family and normality and forced a gentle smile. 

"Mary Morstan, I love you. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I do." 

If there was any noise of protest from a certain consulting detective, it was drowned out by the cheers in the pews. 

 

5) You and I, Ingrid Michaelson

Three year old Hamish curled closer against his papa's jumper-clad chest. 

"You and Daddy really stopped the baby-stealer?"

"The kidnapper? Of course. Your daddy's brilliant."

"Is that true, Daddy?" Hamish called to the familiar face so alike his own. 

"Of course, Hamish. In case your papa has neglected to tell you, I was and still am more competent than all of Scotland Yard put together," he answered from the kitchen, which had housed fingers, toes, and sometimes even a head for as long as little Hamish could remember. 

"Bit sure of ourselves, aren't we, Sherlock?"

"Not if I have every reason to be."

"Well, you won't be so smug when you're on your back tonight, will you?"

"Let's get to bed, shall we, Hamish?" his daddy rose abruptly from his experiment to lift his wide-eyed and bewildered son to his bedroom, but not before smirking and winking saucily at his husband.


End file.
